


Under the Shade of the Vhenadahl

by RatherCharmingVermin



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Slice of Life, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 12:45:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4829639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RatherCharmingVermin/pseuds/RatherCharmingVermin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A busy Summerday in the alienage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Shade of the Vhenadahl

**Author's Note:**

> Just an exercise in building atmosphere. This isn't intended to have plot or character focus.

   Every Summerday, once the initiated youths were done with the annual procession and had promptly forgotten the imposed Chantry lecture, the alienage held a celebration of its own.

  In the late afternoon, people scrabbled about setting tables and benches under the shade of the Vhenadahl, while the elderly played chess and hoops, and the children chased each other about screaming. Each family brought a few culinary confections of their own, putting a little more effort into it than they usually would. Effort did not always imply originality however, so it was common to have leftover stew, pear and honey tarts, and a few homemade brews in an unofficial measure. Everyone from the affluent (or relatively affluent, as this was still the alienage) to the most wretched beggar was included. "It's an occasion to practice the precepts of the Chant !" said the Hahren, patting a sour faced Olyffe Tabris on the shoulder and sending her off to serve the soup. Summerday was a celebration for those of more mature station in life, but for the youngsters, it was a lesson in charity and humility. Not a very good lesson, Olyffe thought, if it required repeating every year.

   Summerday wouldn't have been a free event if it wasn’t for the newly initiated adolescents, still in their white tunics, lumbering around at the command of their elders with sullen, sweaty faces. Some might have called it a cynical exploitation of labour. Most of these people were under the age of twenty. They were in charge of setting up a stage in front of the tables. It ended up a rickety thing, made of thin beams, planks, and covered with old carpets, but for four hours it would do well enough. The permanent platform, used for announcements, counsels and weddings, was too small for the intended use, and would instead be occupied by musicians. They, like all the entertainers present that night, were volunteers. That said, it was still considered poor form not to donate anything for their efforts. Children as young as three would ask their parents for a copper, and go leave it in the players' case. A plate was passed around to compensate the actors. For fourty years the same troupe had played in the Denerim alienage, led by Derrien Barley. As was custom, they played a moral tragedy first, usually with a chantric aspect, and then a short burlesque comedy to smooth any rattled nerves.

   The first play was The Trial of Andrasté, a staple of Tevinter literature which in predictable Tevinter fashion focused more on the person of Hessarian. Old Barley’s Hessarian was a caricature denouncing the father of Tevinter as little more than a cowardly tyrant, an interpretation not exactly new to Ferelden. Vasilia died at the end, strange initiative on the company’s part. Perhaps it was an alternate history play. One wondered how Andrasté – played by a newcomer, a girl who used to take reading lessons from Olyffe's father – mustered all these tears. Much to Olyffe’s confusion, she seemed to draw more yet from the audience. The woman was a mountainous water source. It wasn't very inspiring to see the Bride of the Maker and liberator of men spend the whole play red eyed and mottled. She told her mother so. She threw her head back, let out an unearthly cackle, and then had the gall to tell Olyffe to quiet down during the show.

   Barley had written the comedy himself. It was exactly what the alienage had come to expect from him. A cranky old patriarch wishing to wed a sheltered ingenue, who wants to wed a handsome young man, who consults an old mage mentor, and is aided by a few helpful servants. It got a few laughs, nonetheless. Why change an efficien formula ? The physical comedy was strong, with the actors throwing themselves into the roles with perhaps less regard towards their safety than they should. One hesitated at times between laughing and cringing when they flew themselves onto their backs. Olyffe snickered behind her hand at a few crude double entendres she was too young to understand, and too mature to find funny. Spying Shianni next to her, Olyffe reddened, trying to turn her face to stone. She didn't want people to think she liked that sort of humour. It didn't fit her reputation as a too serious prude, and Olyffe placed high importance on staying in character. Why was Shianni smirking at her ?

   When the comedy ended - with a marriage, as the form demands – the company sat down to dine with the rest of the alienage. The musicians continued playing as the sun set. At this point, the wine reserves were seriously diminished. Common wisdom was to drag your spouse home before they started embarrassing both you and themselves. The last ones at the party could then appreciate the evening. With the sky grown dark, a few sparse oil lanterns turned the the streets yellow, and the air developed that particular chill that stirred the blood with clandestine excitement. A few stragglers still danced. Now, Olyffe would not go of her own free will, but if someone were to drag her along, guide her and act silly for her amusement, she might, perhaps, relent to participate in the final moments of the festivities.

   Somewhere on the benches, somebody sketched two girls in motion, careless and giggling, with a piece of coal.


End file.
